


Untitled (front porch)

by winchestersinthedrift



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Outdoor Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4704032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift





	Untitled (front porch)

For once it’s not a squat or even a motel - well ok, it’s a squat, but a legit one, an old farmhouse owned by a contact of Bobby’s, and you’ve been here for a week doing deep background research on a spate of nearby hauntings. You’re lying across the wicker sofa on the back porch, eating a bag of black liquorice you found in the kitchen cupboard and watching a herd of cows stare at you from across the road. The place is free, and it’s got running water and is relatively clean. It’s also out in the middle of nowhere, 20 miles from town, which is fine but means you mostly see cows and a lot of gophers. 

Sam comes out the door in what you call his down-home clothes (worn green tshirt and a farmer-style ball cap with the usual blue jeans). You don’t say anything cause your mouth is full of liquorice but you waggle your eyebrows at him and wave. The Impala’s pulling out of the yard when Dean wanders out to the porch, fingers laced through the handle of a John Deere coffee mug. He’s wearing just his boxers and a pair of old men’s loafers he found in a closet upstairs. 

‘Howdy little lady,’ he drawls, all exaggerated vowels, and you laugh up at him and say ‘Hi Farmer Brown’ and draw your knees up so he can sit but instead he sets his coffee cup down and puts one hand on the back of the bench and the other on the armrest over your head and he leans down over you, shins up on the other end of the seat so that he’s hovering over you braced just up on his arms. He hasn’t showered yet this morning and you can smell the musk of his underarms and, fainter, the lavender soap from the last motel you’d stayed at.

‘Hey,’ he says again, a lot closer to your face, and he grimaces during the first kiss cause he hates black liquorice but by the third and fourth ones the taste of coffee from his mouth has taken over and after that you can’t really count cause your face is tipped up into his and his lips are sealed against yours. Sometimes when Dean kisses you it’s not so much kissing as something full-body: it’s the same movement, the same _feeling_ as the pulse of your skin under his hands and the roll of his hips into yours, like your bodies aren’t meeting in three or four or in seven different places, tongue and thigh and hips, but are locked and pulsing together in one single shattering movement. 

His hips knock your drawn-up knees apart as he lowers himself down and you get a hand down under your ass and drag your pajama shorts down. Dean smiles against your mouth with a kind of quick and unhurried delight and presses down against you, hips swivelling a little to push your legs further apart. One of your feet slips off the seat and you’re giggling cause it’s not a big bench and it seems fairly likely you’re both going to end up on the porch floor. 

‘Quit squirming!’ pants Dean, trying to drag his boxers down and almost rolling off in the process, and you try to say ‘ _you_ quit’ but you’re laughing too hard and can’t and plus he’s kissing you again. Then both of you are quiet for a minute except for quickening breaths and the little groans getting punched out of the back of your throat by Dean’s mouth on the line of your jaw and his biceps bunching around your face and his cock grinding thick and stiff against your slick. 

You make a stronger noise, then, half moan and half a sort of strangled ‘Dean’ and he shifts one thigh, fumbles for balance, hitches one of your legs up around his waist and pushes into you. You always lose your shit for a second when he’s first inside you and this time it’s no different - your eyes flicker and roll a little and your body involuntarily arches hard up against him; but there’s something different, extra about it with the morning sun bright through the trees and the cool air on your face and ass and bare thighs. 

There’s no particular hurry and you both take your time. You come first, and laughing, because just as you hit the cows across the road start to moo; and after Dean comes he slides to floor of the porch and gets on his knees and eats you out from the side, one hand flat on your closer thigh and the other playing with your mouth, thumb running over your lips and fingers tracing your teeth.

‘No mooing that time,’ you say after, once you’ve caught your breath. He’s sitting now with his back to the bench and his head tipped back against you, and he rolls his neck to see your face and laughs, the almost-giggle laugh that makes him look like a little boy. ‘Nope,’ he says, ‘clearly gotta try harder next time. Want some coffee?’


End file.
